


Overhea(r)d

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: Denmark Street musings [3]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Fluff and Humor, Implied Sexual Content, Misunderstandings, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-11 05:19:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15965528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: A piece of silliness I wrote initially without any intention to post. Shout out to hobbeshalftail3469 who co-wrote the premise and supplied some of the funnier lines. And persuaded me to post. <3





	Overhea(r)d

Strike and Nick were just contemplating getting another round in before the match kicked off when Ilsa and Lucy arrived in the pub. They were carrying bags of shopping and Ilsa looked pink-cheeked.

The four greeted one another and Lucy went off to the loo.

“It’s my round,” Strike said, standing. Ilsa shook her head and looked at Nick.

“We have to go,” she said.

“What, now?” Nick asked.

“Yes, now.” She pulled a little white stick from her pocket and waved it at him. “Green light day.”

Nick sighed, and Ilsa glared at him. Strike looked from one to the other, confused.

Nick gave a rueful smile. “You know that’s not what I meant,” he said. “It’s just the football’s about to kick off. Can’t it wait, like, three hours?”

Ilsa shook her head. “It’ll take ages to get home then, and anyway, you’ll be pissed, you’ll probably fall asleep on me.”

“Someone mind telling me what’s going on?” Strike asked. “What is that?”

“Ovulation predictor thingy,” Ilsa said, not really looking at him. “Come on, Nick, this is more important. You can come back.”

Nick sighed again. “It’s miles home,” he said. “I’ll miss most of the football.” Ilsa glared again. He chuckled at her wryly. “You’re not exactly making this sexy.”

Ilsa took a deep breath, and Strike hurriedly intervened. “Here,” he said, and put his keys on the table. “Problem solved. My flat’s only round the corner. Get into the mood, you can be back in twenty minutes, might even make kick-off. And we will never speak of this again,” he finished firmly.

Ilsa hesitated, then snatched up the keys. She winked at Nick, and he grinned and followed her out the door.

Lucy came back from the loo and looked round in surprise. “Where did Nick and Ilsa go?”

Strike shrugged. “Run a few errands,” he said. “They won’t be long. Probably.”

“I’ll get us some drinks,” Lucy said.

...

Robin was sat at Strike’s desk, scrolling through CCTV footage on the laptop. She hadn’t slept well, sure she was missing something useful to the case. She’d been in the area, booking a haircut and collecting her dry cleaning, and on impulse decided to pop in and check the footage again.

She heard footsteps on the stairs, could hear a man’s boots, and smiled. She stood and moved towards the door to greet Strike, but then froze as she heard the unmistakable click of heels. Two pairs of feet. She hurriedly went back to Strike’s desk in case he decided to pop in with...whoever it was. But the footsteps went straight on up to the flat.

Robin shrugged to herself and carried on perusing CCTV footage.

She heard movement in the flat above, footsteps, muffled clunks as though things were being dropped. She tried not to listen, but a part of her brain wondered what was going on. The scrape of a chair. A pause. A thump. Another, longer pause. Robin focussed her full attention on the video footage in front of her.

Then she heard it. The rhythmic squeak that could only mean one thing. She froze, amused and a little horrified, realising she was listening to her boss and some woman having sex in his flat above.

...

“So...” Lucy sat down, and Strike sighed. She had that look. He knew the look. He was about to be grilled about his life, about his flat, about his relationship status, about his lack of new clothes, about his refusal to attend dinner parties and be set up with boring women Lucy considered eligible.

“Luce...” he warned. “I came here for a quiet pint and to watch the football.”

She patted his knee firmly. “Football hasn’t started, and I never get to see my big brother,” she said. “So, how’s Robin? Are you going to ask her out now she’s divorced?”

Robin! That’s who I need, thought Strike. His partner was excellent with his sister, chattering away apparently artlessly without ever letting any important information slip. He’d long admired her for it. And hadn’t Robin said she must remember to pick up her dry cleaning this weekend? It was only round the corner. He grabbed his phone from his pocket.

...

Robin’s phone pinged as she was still trying to ignore the noises from upstairs. She glanced at it and stared. It was Strike.

WHERE ARE YOU?

Shit, he’s checking I’m not in the office listening, she thought. DENMARK STREET, DRY CLEANERS, she typed. Almost true. Half true. True half an hour ago, at least.

Ping. EXCELLENT, YOU’RE NEARBY. YOU BUSY?

Robin stared at her phone again. NOT PARTICULARLY.

Ping. COME JOIN ME.

Robin’s eyes widened. She frowned. ER, DON’T YOU HAVE COMPANY?

Ping. YEAH, BUT I’M BORED. SHE’S JUST BANGING ON AND ON.

Robin squeaked a laugh. This wasn’t like him. TRY PAYING ATTENTION INSTEAD OF TEXTING.

Ping. TRIED THAT. SHE DOESN’T REALLY NEED MUCH INPUT.

Robin snorted into her tea. PERHAPS SHE’D PREFER YOU TO HERSELF.

Ping. SHE GETS PLENTY OF THAT. COME JOIN US. I WON’T FEEL GUILTY GOING OUT FOR A SMOKE THEN.

Robin nearly spat her tea out. ARE YOU SUGGESTING I TAKE OVER?

Ping. WELL, YOU KNOW. JUST FOR TEN MINUTES.

The noises upstairs had stopped, Robin noticed. No, there they were again. I REALLY FEEL LIKE THIS IS SOMETHING YOU CAN HANDLE ALONE.

Ping. YEAH BUT IT’LL BE MORE FUN IF YOU’RE HERE.

Robin frowned. What on earth was going on? The noises upstairs were faster, louder now. And she realised they were above her desk, not Strike’s. Not in the bedroom, then.

Ping. PLEASE? THERE’S NO STOPPING HER NOW. HELP A MATE OUT.

Robin burst out laughing. They’re winding me up! She thought. This is Cormoran and Ilsa, jumping up and down up there and sending me daft messages to see what prudish Robin will do. Well, I’ll show them. ON MY WAY!

She turned off the laptop, closed up the office, hung her dry cleaning on the bannister and went quietly up the stairs. I’ll catch them at it, she thought.

She crept to the door, turned the handle very quietly, and opened it.

...

Strike sat back, pleased. “Robin’s going to join us,” he told Lucy. “I’ll get her a glass of wine.”

He returned to the table with a glass of white wine for Robin and a whisky for himself and set them next to his pint and Lucy’s wine. He’d barely sat down when Robin came marching in. She walked right up to the table, picked up Strike’s whisky and downed it in one swallow.

“I’m going to be needing more of that,” she said firmly.

Strike and Lucy looked at her in surprise. “Er, I’ll go,” Lucy said, and went back to the bar.

Robin dropped into the seat next to Strike and puffed out her cheeks, which were scarlet, he noted with amusement. “What’s up?” he asked.

She leaned over the table. “You didn’t specify you were in the pub!” she hissed.

Strike looked bemused. “The football’s on,” he said, as if that explained everything.

“I went to your flat!”

Strike burst out laughing. Robin glared at him. “It’s not funny!”

“Oh, it is,” Strike spluttered. “Did they see you?”

“No, thank God,” said Robin. “But now I have to drink enough whisky and wine to erase a rather graphic mental image of Nick shagging Ilsa on your dining table!”

“Agh, on the table?!” Strike cried. “Don’t tell me any more!”

“Well, if I have to live with the image, so do you!” she retorted.

“Yeah, but you don’t have to eat off the table,” Strike said, still laughing.

“What are they...I mean why...and you _knew_?”

“Ilsa’s ovulating and Nick doesn’t want to miss the footy.” Strike shrugged. “I was just solving a problem.”

Robin shook her head. “Only in a man’s head is that a sensible solution,” she said.

Strike winked. “Ilsa didn’t seem to mind. Here, not a word to Luce,” he added as his sister returned to the table. Robin swallowed the next whisky. “Steady on,” he said, amused.

The football was ten minutes in when Nick and Ilsa arrived back, looking slightly dishevelled. Robin went scarlet and dashed to the bar to get a round in.

“Get all your errands run?” Lucy asked brightly.

Ilsa coughed. “Er, yes thanks,” she said, moving round to the other side of Lucy to draw her gaze, distracting her while Nick slipped Strike’s keys into his hand.

...

“I think,” Strike said, amused, “that I’d better walk Robin home.”

“‘M fine!” Robin said stoutly, turning around and around on the spot as she tried to find her other coat sleeve.

“Well, I fancy the walk,” he said fondly, helping her.

They said goodbye to Nick and Ilsa. Lucy had left some time ago.

“Cheers, mate,” Nick muttered with a wink as he and Strike shook hands.

Strike winked back. “On the table, though?” he murmured, and laughed as Nick’s jaw dropped.

“Fucking hell, Oggy, have you got cameras in your flat or something?”

Strike laughed even harder. “No, I’m just a really good detective!” he said, and led Robin out of the pub.

“So,” he said as they walked down the street, his arm around her holding her in a straight line. “Have you drunk enough to get rid of your mental image?”

“Prob’ly not,” she said. “Thought you and Ilsa were playin’ a joke on me.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Well, I’d heard—“ Robin hiccoughed —“heard them upstairs and I assumed it was you.” She went pink despite her drunkenness. “An’ then I got those naughty texts from you...”

“Hey, hang on, back up,” Strike said. “I didn’t send you naughty texts.”

Robin giggled. “Read ‘em again,” she said. Strike pulled his phone out of his pocket. “And,” Robin went on, “imagine I’m in the office listening to shagging from above...”

“You said you were at the dry cleaners’.”

She waved a hand. “White lie. Was before. Din’t want you t’think I was listening. Read ‘em.”

Strike began to laugh helplessly as he read the texts. Robin was giggling too now.

“An’ for a minute,” she managed, “I really thought you were inviting me to join in!” Strike was breathless now. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve.

“An’ then I reckoned it was you and Ilsa messing about to wind me up, so I crept up to catch you at it, an’ I caught them at it!” Robin spluttered.

“Oh, God, Robin, that’s priceless!” Strike managed, trying to get his breath back.

“An’ now I have to live with having seen that,” Robin said.

Strike grinned. “And I’ve spooked Nick by telling him I know they did it on the table,” he said. “That’ll keep him thinking for weeks!”

“Cormoran, no fair!” Robin cried, but she was still giggling.

“Well,” Strike said, “at least you can honestly say you've learned how to sneak up on people without them knowing you’re there - very useful skill for a detective." He smiled fondly at her.

“Yeah,” Robin said. “An’ I’ve learned Nick has a great arse!”

 


End file.
